A slow descent into madness

What light from distant moons breaks?
the essence bleeds; its blood a
coiled oil: red-black with pain
and understanding. I touch
the rose, colouring the petals
soft with the scarlets of my soul.
What words I carry shift and
contort–how can I confess
to the hearts above?
The fibres of your soul are
strung with mine;together
we are a tapestry purposed, remembered.